Oliver VII Page 8

  Eisenstein slapped Honoré’s knee and grinned even more sarcastically than before.

  “My dear sirs, I’m afraid you must have confused me with someone else. You seem to think, I don’t know why, that I’m some nouveau riche gold miner or spice merchant who can’t tell the difference between a Titian and a pile of crap. Allow me to present you with my card.”

  The card read:

  JAQUES EISENSTEIN

  Proprietor

  The Titian Gallery

  New York

  Fine art bought and sold

  The next day St Germain, elegant and refined as ever, was sitting in the foyer of the Hotel Excelsior on the Lido, and it was there that he heard Honoré and Sandoval’s mournful tale. Oscar, Marcelle and the Major were also present. The bogus palazzo being now redundant, they had pitched camp on the Lido, hoping for something to turn up there. In those days everyone in Europe whose wealth had become a burden to them turned up sooner or later in the foyer of the Hotel Excelsior.

  “So, let’s bury this Eisenstein business as another great idea that turned out badly,” the Count began dejectedly, but clearly intending to soothe. “We made an error, and to err is human. Let’s say no more about it. The man isn’t worth our thinking about. Do you know what this egregious Eisenstein’s father was? A dredger man. The common or garden owner of a boat for digging up mud. A St Germain could never sink so low as to fleece the progeny of a dredger. My illustrious ancestor, the legendary eighteenth-century St Germain, swindled only royalty.”

  Marcelle listened with shining eyes, Honoré with mounting gloom.

  “Ja, ja, Count, but what’s our next move? They’re going to kick us out of the hotel in a day or two.”

  “You are right, my dear chap. I’ve sunk pretty low, it cannot be denied.” Then, in a suddenly changed, altogether unsoothing voice, he went on: “Nothing seems to work, my children. Nothing. It’s the dead season. Business is slack all along the line. I don’t know why we’re wasting our time here on the Lido.”

  Oscar and the Major exchanged glances.

  “Count,” Oscar began. He was blushing with embarrassment. “Since I’ve played a part in the disaster … it would be extremely difficult for me to remain a burden to you, at a critical time like this.”

  “No more of that, my dear friend,” St Germain interrupted, with world-weary grandezza. “My distinguished ancestor bequeathed me a miraculous instinct verging on the prophetic. When I first set eyes on you and Mr Meyer, some primitive impulse stirred inside me, as Socrates’ daemon did in moments of crisis. No doubt my distinguished ancestor was speaking to me, whispering through the mists of time: ‘Old man, I see something fantastic in these two fellows’.”

  Scarcely had St Germain uttered this remark than their fates underwent a truly decisive change.

  A tall, bespectacled, clean-shaven man with a deeply lined face had appeared in the hotel entrance. The staff lounging in the foyer greeted him with the greatest deference. He went over to the reception desk and called out:

  “If Paris wants to speak to me, I’m in the dining room.”

  “Of course, Mr Coltor,” the maître d’hôtel replied, with a deep bow.

  Hearing the name, Oscar shuddered and glanced helplessly at the Major and Sandoval. St Germain noticed, and was instantly all eyes and ears.

  “Coltor?” he whispered to himself, entranced. “So that’s the great Coltor!”

  Coltor had intended to cross the room, but his glance fell on Oscar (or the King, as we should perhaps now call him), and he stopped, rooted to the spot.

  “Why is he staring at you?” the Count whispered excitedly. “Perhaps you know each other?”

  “Of course not. I’ve never seen him, and I’ve no idea who he is,” Oscar protested in horror.

  “Then why is he staring at you?”

  “I don’t know. He seems to think I’m the King of Italy,” Oscar replied, with a forced laugh.

  Coltor, believing that the laughter was aimed at him, smiled broadly and bowed in the direction of the King.

  The King leapt up.

  “Where are you going?” St Germain called out in dismay.

  “It’s nothing … just that … I have to make a phone call … ” And he had already vanished.

  But Coltor was even quicker. With a rapidity no one might have anticipated from so powerfully built a man, he overtook the fleeing King and declared:

  “Your Highness, pardon me for troubling you, but there used to be a most satisfactory business arrangement between us … ”

  The King’s nervousness increased visibly. Taking refuge in his role as Oscar he rounded on Coltor in exasperation:

  “I don’t recall anything of the sort. You have mistaken me for someone else.”

  Coltor’s normally impassive face turned to one of extreme agitation.

  “But don’t you know me, Your Highness? Even in this place I always wear the Grand Cross of the Order of St Florian you did me the honour to bestow on me, with your own hand.” And he showed him the inside of his lapel.

  “You are clearly under the impression … ”

  “That I am speaking to Oliver VII, the former King of Alturia. And I am all the more delighted by this chance meeting as for some weeks now I have been searching high and low for Your Highness—in Europe, America and even Africa. I have never given up hope that that we might still conclude the agreement that was so regrettably frustrated by the Alturian revolution.”

  “My dear sir,” said the King, “I am very sorry, but you are the victim of a misunderstanding. I would be fascinated to learn just why you have confused me, a simple citizen, with the former ruler of Alturia, but at present I haven’t a moment to spare. I am your humble servant, sir.”

  And off he dashed. Coltor stared after him, with a mixture of excitement and dismay, then shook his head and called out to the porter:

  “I’m going up to my room. I shan’t be dining. And no visitors.”

  And he staggered into the lift.

  St Germain gazed round at his followers ecstatically, and in a low, deeply impressive voice, pronounced the following words:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, that mysterious presentiment sent by my illustrious ancestor through the mists of time … well, it didn’t deceive me. Like a saint plunging headlong from heaven in some old religious painting, it has come down to us, the thing we have waited for in vain for all these months—the great project. This could be the greatest deal of my entire life. I shall sell an entire country.”

  Mawiras-Tendal shifted restlessly in his seat.

  “Don’t say a word,” St Germain commanded. “What, I wonder, can you possibly know, Mr Meyer, of the historical background to this scene just played out before our eyes? And have you any idea of what precisely happened in the Alturian revolution? I think not. I, however, am familiar with the whole subject. At the time I made a close study of an article about it in a Sunday newspaper supplement. But why am I telling you this? I shall now take immediate action. I shall go to Coltor and … but someone must come with me, that would make a better impression. Sandoval, you come along. Your hair is so dark you could be taken for an Alturian.”

  Mawiras-Tendal rose and drew himself up to his full height.

  “Count … I must beg you … not to do anything, at least until you have spoken to Oscar … ”

  “Nonsense,” he conveyed with a wave of the hand, and stepped into the lift, with Sandoval in tow.

  Coltor could be approached only through a secretary who, even here on the Lido, worked feverishly day and night on his ever-changing itinerary. The invading force of St Germain and Sandoval was received with extreme consternation.

  “Mr Coltor is not seeing anyone.”

  “We realise that. But we come in the name of Oliver VII, former King of Alturia.”

  The chief secretary looked at them as if they were mad.

  “In the name of King Oliver VII? Oliver is in Africa. You … come back the day after tomorrow. I shal
l leave a note for Mr Coltor.”

  “Sir, at such moments in the history of the world every second’s delay could be catastrophic,” St Germain pronounced. With one stride he was at the far door and tugging it open. Sandoval was close behind him.

  They dashed through two or three rooms, a posse of secretaries hard on their heels. In the fourth they found Coltor, pacing up and down in his nervous excitement.

  “Mr Coltor,” St Germain respectfully began, “you must tell your people not to be forever treading on my heels. Our business is with you and you alone.”

  “Who on earth are you?” demanded the astonished Coltor.

  St Germain made a ceremonial bow.

  “Oubalde Hippolyte Théramene, Count St Germain and Chief Steward to His Highness King Oliver VII during his temporary sojourn abroad. And this gentleman is Baron Sandoval, His Highness’ Groom.”

  “Out!” Coltor yelled at the secretaries. He had now recognised St Germain, remembering that he had been sitting with the King in the hotel lobby. “Take a seat, gentlemen. I am at your disposal. I trust you bring good news of His Highness.”

  Despondently, the secretaries withdrew.

  “Permit me, sir, to assure you with absolute confidence that you did not make a mistake. You have a reputation across the whole of Europe for not making mistakes. And you were right again today. The gentleman you met in the foyer a few minutes ago was indeed none other than King Oliver VII.”

  “But of course it was.”

  “However, His Highness has maintained such a complete incognito here that even his closest followers still believe he is hunting big game in Africa. This self-concealment by His Highness has become, if I may use the term without disrespect, an idée fixe, and he refuses to give up his incognito at any price. If you wished to establish a connection with him, you chose the worst possible way when you approached him directly.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “At this moment, the position is that—setting modesty aside—the road to His Highness leads through myself alone.” (delivered with a deep bow, while remaining seated) “Since leaving home, His Highness has lived only for the pleasures of literature and art and has eschewed everything of a political nature. Just between the two of us, the events of the revolution took a heavy toll of him. I open all his letters. It’s quite probable that His Highness knows nothing of what is going on in the world. If perhaps Mr Coltor plans, or merely proposes, anything to do with him, I would ask that he refrain from approaching him directly. If he did, the response would only be negative.”

  “I understand, Count. I can well imagine it. But I must ask you to explain how it is that you and I never met in Alturia, or Norlandia, at the time.”

  “The explanation is very simple. I haven’t been there for years. The connection between His Highness and my humble self is long-standing and dates from much further back. I was His Highness’ travel guide and mentor when he visited the famous cities of Europe as a young man. I introduced him to the mysteries of life in Europe, if I might use such an expression,” St Germain declared, with a wonderful smile. “Perhaps I can thank that for the honour he does me in regarding me as an old family friend. If he listens to anyone, it is to me.”

  “Forgive me, Count, if I, as a very simple man of business, change the subject rather abruptly. I am sure you must know as well as I do that Alturia has not been a happy place since the great change, and that all serious-minded people would wish to see Oliver VII back on the throne, and to conclude the treaty with Norlandia and myself.”

  “Yes, of course I know. As you can imagine, Mr Coltor, I have a hand in those matters too. Only today I had a detailed report from the chargé d’affaires there … ”

  “From Norlandia?” he asked, raising his head. “Perhaps Princess Ortrud is also here on the Lido, incognito?”

  “Do you have the honour of knowing the Princess personally?” the Count asked cautiously.

  “I have not had the privilege of being introduced to her. But I used to know her by sight, naturally.”

  “You are never wrong. The Princess is here.”

  Now Sandoval was becoming seriously worried. Where would the Count find a princess?

  “My dear Count,” Coltor continued. “We must keep in touch with one another. You say there is no chance of success if I try to engage His Highness in direct and immediate discussions … ”

  “None whatsoever. If you will allow me, I shall prepare the ground. When the moment is ripe I shall let you know, and the meeting you wish for will come about. Until then, all I would ask of you is that you do not reveal His Highness’ jealously guarded incognito to anyone.”

  With that they took their leave, assuring each other of their immense mutual respect.

  Sandoval was so astonished by the situation that, as they hurried back to the Count’s lodgings, he could hardly speak.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” the Count was muttering aloud. “I was right to listen to the voice of my distinguished ancestor when I first clapped eyes on this luckless Oscar. Now the royal game begins, Sandoval, the royal game. We’re going to make a fool of the greatest swindler on the entire planet.”

  “And what will we get from this game, my dear Count?”

  “My boy, at this moment I simply don’t know. Believe me, we shall have all the time we need later on to think about these questions of material detail. Every second, hundreds upon hundreds of possibilities are flashing through my brain. We’ll have to see which looks the most viable. But what matters is the beauty and excitement of the game, believe me, Sandoval.”

  They had arrived at the not very distinguished little hotel where St Germain was now lodging. Honoré was waiting for them.

  “Well, Count. Anything to hope for?”

  “I came, I saw, and I shall very quickly conquer. Bring everyone to me, my boy—that is to say, Oscar, Marcelle and Meyer.”

  The King entered the room, but not exactly in his Oscar frame of mind: he was irritable and bellicose. Mawiras-Tendal had already given him a clear account of what had happened.

  “Count,” he said, turning to St Germain. “Is it true that you spoke to Coltor?”

  “It is. Today Fortune admitted me once again to her favours.”

  “And what was said, might I enquire?”

  “You may not, my dear boy.”

  “My dear Count … I have to say … if you by any chance told Coltor that I am King Oliver VII, then everything is over between us. And I shan’t be here.”

  St Germain stood up. His facial expression changed completely. At that moment he was a formidable figure.

  “But what are you thinking? Do you think opportunities like this come twice in a lifetime? What sort of weak-mindedness, and folly, is this—that you don’t wish to be a king?”

  “That I cannot explain. It’s a regrettable, but very old, I might say childhood, notion I have, that I don’t want to be a king. Anything but that.”

  At that moment Marcelle ran in. She was clearly startled.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” she asked. “The police?”

  “The police?” St Germain replied, with disdain. “Not an institution I am familiar with. Thanks to the inscrutable ways of Providence, my girl, our affairs have taken a decisive turn today. Consider this young man,” he said, turning to the King. “You believe, my dear, that he is Oscar. But from now on he is no longer Oscar but King Oliver VII, the former ruler of Alturia. Whether you believe it or not.”

  Mawiras-Tendal leapt to his feet.

  “My dear Mr Meyer,” said St Germain. “I can see that you have already grasped our grandiose possibilities. From today, Oscar is the King and we are his Court. I am the Chief Steward, and Mr Meyer, who is so like a Prussian officer, will be his aide-de-camp. What was the name of that famous aide-de-camp of the Alturian King?”

  “Mawiras-Tendal, if I remember correctly,” said the Major.

  “No, it wasn’t that—but some such barbarous-sounding name. We shall com
plete our Royal Household with a few telegrams. Marcelle, my girl, you are Princess Ortrud, daughter of the Empress of Norlandia.”

  “Oh my God!” she gasped.

  “Now, Oscar. Look at the way you’re sitting there!” The Count rounded on the King, who had sunk deep into himself. “Is that how a king would sit?”

  “No, sorry. It would be rather different. But, thank God, I’m not a king.”

  “Do shut up, Oscar!” shouted Marcelle. “If the Count says you’re a king, then you are one, because he will certainly have his reasons why you should. If you say one more word, I’ll slap your face.”

  Oscar fell into a troubled silence.

  “That’s the way to do it,” said St Germain. “And to lend a show of plausibility to our roles, we’ll have to lease the Palazzo Pietrasanta once again.”

  “But what with?” Marcelle asked. “We still owe part of the money from our last stay.”

  “What’s this, my girl? I thought just a moment ago that you had complete trust in me, in my unfailing resourcefulness and hidden reserves of strength. Well, well: I must have been mistaken,” he went on grimly.

  “But I do trust you,” she replied.

  “And this is why. We’ll pay for it by selling your diamond ring.”

  Marcelle clutched her left hand.

  “Not that!”

  St Germain turned to Sandoval with a sorrowful face.

  “Groom,” he began. “The history of the world furnishes us with many examples of enterprises of the most incalculable promise brought down by the small-mindedness, rapacity, short-sightedness and sheer stupidity of women. Now it seems we shall bleed to death, be utterly ruined and perish just a few steps short of our goal. I could say a lot more on the subject, but … ”

  Then, instantly changing his face and voice, he said, in the most natural manner conceivable:

  “So let’s have that ring, girl.”

  “Here you are,” Marcelle replied, deeply moved, and drew it from her finger. “But I’d just like to know what sort of business this is.”

  “No flower will ever bloom for us in Alturia,” Oscar muttered resignedly, his aggression having evaporated.